It's a Sin to Tell a Lie
by AstralMiscreant
Summary: A collection of vignettes surrounding Spike and Faye and a little bit of the rest of our favorite Bebop crew all interwoven into the infinite fabric of life. Slight humor, angst, romance, and drama galore. SxF centric.
1. Chapter 1: Higher

Disclaimer: **I own nothing.**

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 **Prompt One: Higher**

 _"I wanna go back to the old way, but I'm drunk and still with a full ash tray. With a little bit too much to say."_

 **Characters:** Faye, Spike

 **Rating:** T

 **Genre:** Angst

 **Summary:** After Spike's final departure from the Bebop, Faye is left to her own devices in a sleazy bar on Venus at 1 p.m. recollecting her thoughts on the matter. Introspection and more.

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Session One: Higher

This whiskey had her feeling pretty.

Beautiful. Diaphanous. So light and delicate that she felt if she were to just run outside to the warm, windy Venus afternoon, she could simply blow away into a myriad pieces drifting off into the winds like a dandelion during the summertime. Warm sunshine and warm nights. Pool parties in the morning and bonfires in the evening. But that was on Earth and that was over fifty-five years ago, and four months, and twelve days—not like she was counting. And there were no dandelions on Venus nor were there any change of seasons for the matter as it stayed perpetually hot all year round on this godforsaken planet.

So pardon Faye Valentine if she were impolite, but the much needed whiskey on the rocks and the coolness of the bar counter was something of a blessing. And who gave a damn if it was 1:37 in the afternoon and that the bar was completely devoid of any other poor soul save for the token drunkard that lay precariously on her far right?

No, Faye had the right to be impolite for all things considered.

And as she swirled the glass cup in her hands watching the coppery liquid slosh and mingle around with the ice before she stilled it once more to let all the elements coalesce into the perfect potion for pity, she threw her head back to gulp the fire right down her throat. Wincing as it left scorch marks down its path.

It was a bit ironic really. Needing temporary displeasure for an almost temporary sweet release. It was like all things in this life as she traversed its seemingly infinite scape of pity and disillusionment—simple and immediate gratification was your every solution. It did the job.

And by God had it become her go-to companion. Because whiskey never said much even if she were at her wits end. All it ever really needed was to be consumed, like flames catching on to flames, and doused down by a bit of lemon juice and sugar if she wanted it extra sour. Then, with the temporary flames riding down ever so gently to pool in a liquid heat down the throat, that's when reality mixed with whatever the hell else was up in her brain and she'd forget about the five thousand woolong she lost off the horse race bet or the fact that Ed had mistaken her shampoo for provisions and downed it in one gulp.

Yes, whiskey was her best companion. Her compadre. Her friend. Maybe even her midnight lover.

"Another glass, please," she beckoned towards the barmaid. The empty glass was high in the air before she knew it, with nothing but the sound of ice clinking onto glass resonating around the room. It was hazy now.

She felt a warm body unceremoniously plop right down on the stool next to her.

 _"Make it two,"_ Spike's voice was as low and smooth as a shallow pond still undulating with the waves.

Within minutes, two glasses of whiskey sat waiting in front of them, fresh ice and all.

"Fancy seeing you here," she said as she took a sip from her glass.

His eyes darted towards the side but he never turned to look her in the eye. "Looks like we dig the same haunts, huh?"

She swirled her glass again before throwing her head back and downing half of it in one gulp. "Can't say I'm surprised. Cheap booze, no smoke-free signs, and nothing but drifters all around. Seems like your taste."

"Like I'd even care if it were smoke-free or not. If a man wants to light up, he should be able to do as he pleases," Spike said resolutely before he himself had dug into his pockets to procure a crumpled-up cigarette.

As if on cue, she already had her bic lit out in front of him and he carelessly dipped the stick to its flame.

"Touché," she said before lighting up her own.

The man swiveled around his seat and leaned his lanky frame against the bar counter as he took in a long drag. "It's morning, but it feels like the stars should be falling," he muttered.

"You mean, _'up?'_ The stars should be up," Faye corrected.

"No, not at all."

She frowned but said nothing. Attention fell all on the lone cigarette that was carefully held between her fingers. Inhale and exhale. Like breathing in all the burdens of the world and releasing it out into the air for it to fester like a big, ugly wound. Inhale and exhale.

Faye blew the smoke on his face.

"Sorry 'bout the other night," she said suddenly.

This time, he did look at her, with that same haunting expression she'd always remembered him to have—the one with the fake eye and the other the real. "I don't know what you're talking about," he finished off smugly.

"Damn right you know..." She said as she coughed up the cigarette smoke and extinguished the butt of it on her ashtray. "I shouldn't have shot out like a madwoman. It was all impulse, my nerves got all jumbled and I guess my fingers just twitched a little is all."

He wasn't looking at her again, but the ghost of a smile still played on his visage. His arm shot out in front of him and he cocked his fingers as if it were his gun and he mouthed," Bang, bang" with each mimicked shot. The man looked so silly right then and there, but she wouldn't say a damn thing. It felt like eternity, as if they were stuck in eternity, with him staring out into the void with his arms out in front of him pantomiming gunshots and her gazing longingly at the back of his frame. If this were eternity, she would gladly fall into the void.

The two had allowed the silence to veil over them for quite a bit, before he finally spoke after staring out and towards the darkened corners of the rest of the bar for so long.

"You're forgiven," he finally said before reaching back to take another swig of whiskey.

She paused as she looked down at her drink, the ice was melting into the liquor making it look watered-down and translucent. It was fading quickly now and she didn't know whether or not she could catch it at the right time before it just disappeared. For a long time she pondered the words she was about to say.

"I know I can be more creative, and, y'know, come up with poetic lines, but..." She leaned over with her head in her hands no longer cradling the glass. "'I'm fucked up right now and I love you' is only thing in my mind I can think of."

His glass was empty now.

They sat there in the middle of _Speakeasy's Bar_ at 2:09 in the afternoon with the sun scintillating through the blinds of the cracked maroon rimmed windows and the rest of the room filtered out into a wan darkness. The barmaid was on the other end of the counter wiping down glasses while lightly sipping on a cup of _Alize_ and candied cherries. The drunkard to their right had already dozed off with his withering middle-aged hand covering half of his countenance and an empty bottle of who-knows-what dangling in his other.

Amongst the blur of the scene, the soft sound of the afternoon soap opera reverberated from the small flat screens that lined the corners of the room mixing in with the odd melody of light snores and the gentle clinking of glasses. But it was just the two of them now. Just Spike and Faye. No pretenses, no banter, no anything.

"My star has fallen," he said solemnly, and somehow he managed a full-blown, dazzling smile with teeth and all as he said this. But why, why did he look so sad? "There were so many cigarettes left unsmoked, so many bottles of whiskey left to the brim...Would you light my fire one more time?"

He gave her a tentative look as he brought his last cigarette up for her to light and this time it was in pristine condition—enough that you could visibly see the _Marlboro_ imprint just around the paper.

Faye was crying now.

"I want to go back to the old way," she said as she reached over with trembling hands to flick her bic on for the very last time.

"Don't we all?" He questioned in that cryptic manner he always used whenever he had so much to say but with so little words.

She watched in forlorn as the familiar frame of the lanky man with a cigarette held carelessly between his lips and a glass of whiskey dangling in his hand leaning over the counter slowly faded into a silhouette. Then, the shadows disappeared completely. And just like that, he was gone. Like a spectre in the drunken haze that was her world, he slipped away so easily, so quickly just as he had came. The stool next to her was empty and the second glass that she felt he once held was empty too with red lipstick stains pressed gently across its rim.

And then Faye realized she was left alone, too drunk and with a full ash tray.

With a little bit too much to say.

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 **A/N:** This is based on Higher by Rihanna. And on a side note, I'll be continuing with a plethora of more oneshots based on a lot of ANTI's songs and others, ranging from happy, sad, funny, and angsty. So, definitely give it a listen to RIH even if you're not into consumerism pop because its actually a great album.


	2. Chapter 2: Bad Religion

**Prompt Two: Bad Religion**

 _He said," Allahu akbar." I told him," Don't curse me." "Bo bo you need prayer." I guess it couldn't hurt me. If it brings me to my knees, it's a bad religion._

 **Characters:** Spike

 **Rating:** T

 **Genre:** Friendship

 **Summary:** On his way home from another inebriated night, Spike too consumed with his burdening thoughts, takes up the idea of sharing a little tête-à-tête with a religious cab driver and a meter running for a quick sixty minutes.

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Session Two: Bad Religion

The night air was stifling, hot, almost suffocating as it asphyxiated him with a humid heat he had felt like no other.

In the heat of the night, rush hour sped through the city like a spaceship in hyperspace, going so fast that you couldn't even register the surroundings. Things just rushed by, intangible, with no comprehension. The darkness veiled the city streets in its own perfect sense of anonymity synonymous to itself, with the yellow cabbies pouring out of seemingly nowhere to help pull in the late night hedonists too drunk on their own fix of debauchery to make it home on their own. Wearing the same expression of weariness that ached into the very surface of his bones that seemed to plague just about everyone else around him, his lanky form meshed with the myriad of these poor souls who ambled down the streets.

His last cigarette hung on his lips all crumpled up but barely there enough for him to smoke. However, tonight was not a night for lighting up he mused to himself. It just didn't feel right. Nothing felt right at this moment. The bright city lights that scintillated in neon colors, the rush of sinners amidst him, the bars at their full capacity, those damned bright yellow cabbies that just screamed at you to call upon them. Nothing.

Not wanting to continue on his depressing observation, he whistled out, waving his hand over his head to single out some attention. Immediately, one of the many cabbies that had been zooming past in an indiscernible haze pulled up next to the curb. Inside, a man with a white kufi and dark skin like terracotta baked under the hot sun had rolled down the window. He smiled an amiable smile that beckoned him under a false pretense of camaraderie, and he knew he shouldn't have believed it, but he took it at face value nonetheless. White teeth and all.

"Good evening, sir," the man waved at him as he gestured for him to enter.

Without hesitation, he strode inside and shut the door behind him all in one fluid motion. He sprawled his tired limbs across the backseat not caring how he looked even if his lanky body encompassed the entire seat as it was cramped in what little space there was.

"Where to?"

He didn't answer him at first, opting on rather staring out the window with a contemplative look etched upon his features. The driver simply shrugged and flipped the gear out of park. He could hear the engine revving up, it sounded tired and worn out. He felt that in his bones.

"Hey, man, do you mind humoring a weary soul?" He finally questioned.

The driver gave him a knowing nod. "Ah, sure," he said before turning around and waving his hand in the form of a cross right above his forehead. He guessed it was some form of supplication or witchcraft, he could never differentiate between the two.

 _"Allahu akbar,"_ the man began before chanting a few more foreign words he could not make out.

"Woah, woah, man. I didn't... What're you doin'? Please, uh, don't curse me," he said awkwardly as he watched the man curiously wave his hands over him while continuing to chant.

The driver opened his eyes in confusion and the words stopped altogether. "But, boy, you need prayer—one for a tired soul. Right?"

The hesitation was palpable. "...Well, I s'pose it won't hurt me..." He relaxed a bit at this and finally laid his head back in peace. "Leave the meter running, alright?"

"Alright. Any place you'd like to go, perhaps?"

"No, no. Nowhere in particular, just..." He shook his head. "Will you...uh, mind bein' my shrink for the hour?"

"Of course," the driver laughed. "What's on your mind, young man?"

"Lots of things."

"Want to tell me what's got you so wound up? After all, it must have hit you hard enough to ask a humble taxi driver to be your psychiatrist," the man chuckled.

He leaned back closing his eyes. "...I swear I've got three lives or something..." He sighed. "Every time I think I'm about to meet my maker, the ol' son of a bitch seems to bring me back to life at every chance I get. Do you think he has some sort of sick, twisted sense of satisfaction at seeing me helpless?"

"What you see as a burden is a blessing to others."

"Aw man, don't give me that. Please don't. I get it, I'm an ungrateful ass, I get..."

"I wasn't saying that, sir. I just think you should try seeing things in a different perspective. Look at it in a different angle, so to speak."

"How so?"

"They say that Allah grants second chances upon souls who are truly in need of it."

His interest piqued, the man leaned over and arched his brow. "Meaning?"

"There was a story once, one that my father had told me when I was a little boy. He said before he even met my mother that he had once been a reckless man, willing to not follow our religion, disregarding the teachings of God. His choices led him on a path of unrighteousness, to the point of where he almost died," the man turned a corner and halted at a red light. "However, he was saved by Allah and by then when he woke up in the hospital, he had met my mother. She was his nurse."

"...So?"

"He told me that he was saved because Allah deemed it so. He saved him because he had a future yet to be lived waiting for him on the other side. He saved him so he could meet with the love of his life."

"Hn, _the love of his life,_ huh?" He questioned skeptically.

The man smiled. "Have you met the love of your life yet?"

"...Yeah, I did."

"Perhaps Allah has given you another chance because of them."

"Doubt it," he said smugly. "She's dead."

The driver nodded and continued down the road, veering off a trafficked lane. "...Well, perhaps she wasn't the love of your life."

They kept quiet after that allowing the silence to sheath around them in a comfortable sense of tranquility. The driver continued driving and he couldn't possibly care less where they were going.

"You sure you don't have any destination, any place you want to go in particular? We have another twenty-eight minutes to kill until the meter runs at one hour exact," the driver finally spoke up, breaking the two from their mutual silence.

"Nah, just take to the streets if you wanna. Outrun the demons, could ya'?"

He chuckled slightly. "You say a lot of strange things, young man."

"Heh, so do you. All this hocus pocus stuff about Allah's got me spooked."

"Islam is my religion, it is only right that I try to impart some words of wisdom through the teachings of Allah. After all, you are a tired soul for such a young man—you need the prayers. There is no witchcraft that I speak of, only a humble man's way of belief. I take it you are not a religious man?"

"Tried it, realized it's not my style. My mom always used to bag on me 'bout it, said that God saves man. Catholic school taught me otherwise."

"Ah, so do you believe in a God at the very least?"

"...Hm, something like that. I believe in a higher power and all that crap, something or someone must be up there enough to humor themselves in keeping me alive."

"So you simply don't believe in religion I suppose?"

"Well, the way I see it, if it brings me to my knees, _it's a bad religion."_

"Hmm...curious," the driver murmured and the two men suddenly fell into silence once more.

He kicked his feet up on top of the the edge of his seat and leaned back, folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. He felt like if he concentrated just enough he would feel like he was back home on familiar territory leaning back relaxed much like the many times on his precious yellow couch.

The Black Dog would be perched atop the table situated in front of the couch reading off who knows what off the computer. A certain violet-haired Romani would be across the room on a chair filing her nails or smoking a cigarette or two. When he thought about it, he could remember every last nuance of her features right down to the very last detail with lips painted red as rose and eyes that gleamed like emeralds only in a certain light. It was odd to think about her visage now, but the image never ceased to haunt his hazy memory. But that was long ago and there was no use in dreaming up old fantasies.

"...Say, man, do you believe in unrequited love?" He questioned, bringing his burdening thoughts out into the open. There was no turning back in laying all his cards down now.

"Depends on what you deem an unrequited love—is it on your part or hers?"

Now this got him thinking. Was it her...or was it, loathe he admit _, him?_ It had been so long, he couldn't differentiate between the two anymore.

The blurred lines that made up their turbulent relationship had finally meshed into one giant, coalescing mess. It was a picture, a wacky interpretation of the shortcomings of a man and a woman thrown in with the complexities of life with its blurred lines brought together to comprise one whole piece. It was in such a disarray, messy, like a _Pollock_ painting made from sticks and enamel paint strewn about the canvas. A mess.

"...Not sure about where that distinction should be made... Sometimes I think of her and then I think of nothing," he finally replied. "I don't think she can ever make me love her or maybe I just can't make her love me the way I want her to, ya' know?"

"Sounds a bit complicated..."

"Guess I'm just a complicated sort of guy."

"Well if you want my advice on it, sir, I think you should let my previous words resonate. Like I said, Allah has deemed it integral that you continue to live and maybe he's done so out of his last act of kindness. Maybe this lady of yours is the real thing."

"What, that _'love of my life'_ crap?"

"Perhaps."

He let his eyes close again and sighed while he allowed himself to ruminate on the cab driver's words . "...Ya' know, I think it's just a bad religion altogether..." He mused.

"What is, sir?"

"Unrequited love—it's kinda' like a bad religion. To be in love with someone who could never love you. To me, it's like a one-man cult. You drink it all up, like cyanide in a glass cup."

"I suppose so. If like what you said _, 'if it brings you to your knees'_ —begging. It must not be a good one to begin with," the driver chuckled at him.

He stared at the window for a long time. "Yeah," he agreed. "...Only bad religion could have me feeling this way..."

The meter wrung a quarter of a second past an hour and the two men were back to business. He looked over at the taxi driver's license plastered above the dashboard. "Well, Ahmed...Kattan," he read aloud as he reached in his wallet for his money card. "I guess my time's up."

"I guess it is..." The man murmured almost wistfully. "Say, do you have a name young man? Seeing as you know mine."

Spike Spiegel grinned before shrugging. "Sorry, my man, I can't really tell you the truth. I can't trust no one."

He concluded that his disguise was his and his alone.

The taxi driver handed back his money card. "Alright then, that's fine. Have a blessed day, young man. May Allah guide you in your path."

"You too."

And just like that he set off into the night, whistling an old tune he heard once upon a time from somewhere or someone. The words resonated in his mind.

 _Have a blessed day, cowboy._

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 **A/N:** This chapter was based on Bad Religion by Frank Ocean. Was going to only use ANTI songs, but decided to throw caution to the wind and mark this entire story as my own SxF playlist. Btw, forgive me if my interpretation of Islam is incorrect, I'm not very acquainted with the religion to begin with.


	3. Chapter 3: Consideration (Prelude)

**Prompt Three: Consideration (Prelude)**

 _"I needed you to please give my reflection a break f_ _rom the face it's seeing now._ _Ooh darling, gahhlee, w_ _ould you mind giving my reflection a break f_ _rom the pain it's feeling now?"_

 **Characters:** Faye, Edward

 **Rating:** K+

 **Genre:** Friendship, Humor

 **Summary:** It's Friday night and everyone knows that this calls for girl time on the Bebop; some nails will be painted, but a whole lot of divulging will ensue. It's all about Earth, happiness, and a friendship through the bond of a most unlikely pair.

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Session Three: Consideration—A Prelude

They sat together like two old souls who knew each other for the better part of their lives. Basking in a familiarity only two women bred from the highest level of dysfunctional possible could achieve.

 _Basketcases_ —the both of them, so dysfunctional, so fascinatingly morbid, that it was the stuff of legends.

A cowgirl in her mid-twenties who stood the test of time of some poorly contrived science-fiction-cum-twenty-first-century-blockbuster-hit, but here's the sad twist, this was no mere movie for Faye Valentine—this was reality. And here beside her sat her genius cowgirl prodigé and hacker aficionado whose story was just as sick, if not more malignantly twisted as her mentor and de-facto den mother. Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV was no average prepubescent when pitted against her predecessor, for all things worth, Edward was just as much a legend-in-the-making as her own dear Faye-Faye.

Therefore, it would be no surprise that these two would click faster than a lock and hatch, buckled up and ready to rocket past you faster than you could say the word _"parsecs."_ It would seem that the powers that be had deemed it perfectly fine for these two to be practically a match made in heaven, of the rapport kind that is. Polar opposites, two sides of the same coin, yet different pieces altogether. That's what Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV and Faye Valentine were—diamonds in the rough to put it more aptly.

And they sat together, basking in their long withstanding familiarity, with Faye hunched over in concentration as she put every bit of her meticulous attention into the simple art of uncapping a bottle of nail polish and dutifully painting each and every one of the teenager before her's nails a glimmering dusty rose pink.

Yes, this was the stuff of legends on the bebop or more so, the stuff of tradition. Because every Friday night at exactly 6:30 p.m., Faye would sit herself down with the only other woman on this God awful testosterone-filled ship and paint Edward's nails. It was a form of bonding. It was friendship. It was an unspoken bond between a woman and a girl. It was a ritual.

"Say, Ed, I never got to ask you..." Faye looked up from adding a thin layer of _Perfect Polished Pink_ onto the younger girl's left pinky toe. "Where'd you come from? I mean, no, what's your story?"

The ginger-haired hacker could only stare at her in slight bemusement. "Eh?"

"I mean...you know, how was it like for you growing up, er, I mean... How was earth like since the whole environmental deterioration and all that?" She continued awkwardly not quite sure why she had the need to bring intimate details up now. Faye couldn't possibly know why she decided to mess up the entire status quo of their weekly ritual, but something deep within had egged her on, like a little candlelight flame waiting for a flint and spark. She guessed that the question was the spark, she herself had been the flint.

"Well, if you really wanted to hear about where Edward comes from Faye-Faye, I have no other choice but to tell you!" Edward squealed with joy. Suddenly her face fell," But beware, it shall be a long, long, long, long, long, long tale."

Faye crossed her arms, a challenging smirk played upon her countenance. "Alright then, kid. I'm game."

"Weeeeellll," she leaned over. "I came fluttering in from Neverland, time can never stop me no, no, no, no. Father-person said I fell out of the sky of Edward's mama's loins, heh, as Francoise. They were both geologists, but nowadays papa's a map drawer, or cartographer as he likes to put it. Mama fell asleep when I was born, never woke up. Thus, Siniz Hesap Lütfen Appledelhi dropped his baby Francoise down in the Catholic Church Orphanage where she would be raised with the wolves."

"Huh, really? Have you been raised in an orphanage all your life until you met us?"

"Nope, nope, nope. Francoise left the church one day, too tired of running with the wolves. She became the Great Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV! She picked up Ol' Tomato played a little with the art of encoding and voilà—the legend was born! And that is how you found me, I came riding on a pale white horse handing out highs to less fortunate. If a big bad corporation wanted corrupted files to be erased from the galactic database, Edward was there for the taking!"

"In that you mean—?"

"Let's just say, if a big ol' conglomerate or syndicate was running its course too quick, most of the time it would need someone to cover their tracks. Edward did just that. Let me cover your shit in glitter and I can make it gold! Lots and lots of the stuff! The art of encoding can get you far, and far and far, and beyond the imagination!"

"You did corporate dirty work?" Faye gasped in feigned astonishment. It would have been no surprise either way.

"Yes, yes, and yes! Heard you're tryna' sell your soul? Edward has the solution to your problem! Word on the street says you've been running it low lately? Not a problem! I can fix anything and everything all for a little reimbursement of ca-ching, ca-ching!" The girl laughed as she rubbed her thumbs together.

"You worked as an undercover reconnaissance gatekeeper, I'm not all that surprised," Faye laughed airily. "But, I do advise you, please run it back, run it all back for me...because I want to know what your childhood was like. How was it like to be a child of Earth, y'know in the new millennium, one of the very last of your kind?"

Edward brightened at this, leaning back in the chair. "Ooooohhh, that's what you wanted to know! Well, Edward doesn't remember much now, but... I do have some really, really, really vivid images that I can remember—just the small things. Like the scent of the sea, the dusty roads, perfumed pillars of the broken city structures. That's what Faye-Faye wants to hear, right?"

"Ah, y-yeah..." She replied, almost slightly embarrassed of what she was inquiring about. "You really know how to read a gal, don't ya' Ed?"

"Part of the charm my dear Faye-Faye!" She beamed and then her face fell into a more somber expression. "Edward knows you miss Earth, don't you Faye-Faye?"

The violet-haired cowgirl could only sigh in forlorn as she finished the last of Edward's toes, wondering why woe was her and what had she done to have slighted the powers that be enough to deal her with the short end of the stick. Memory be damned.

"Yeah, I miss it. I mean, how would you feel if the majority of your life was unceremoniously taken away from you? That's a natural, God-given right if you ask me!" She huffed.

"Edward understands and if you must know, even though climate change has left the planet bonkers, Earth was and still is inherently the same," the teenager said evenly with her once playful tone sounding close to something almost normal. "When we last went to Earth together you said everything looked broken, buuut, that is not so! Earth is Earth. The winds are the same, they're cool and just as every bit relaxing as they were hundreds and thousands of years ago! The waters are just the same, salty and with a hint of musk—Cleopatra probably smelled the very same sea air two millenniums ago, and that's just fine! Even if things change, everything stays right where you left it. Ever so slightly, daily and nightly, in many ways everything stays!"

A moment of silence passed between the two women, a quiescent ambiance, the candlelight spark had blown away. This silence was that of a mutual sense of understanding, one that had crept between that medium of familial affection and empathy, enough for both of them to simply take it as it was. Faye had her shortcomings, Edward had her eccentricities, and that's just how they liked it. They were simply a pair of one-of-a-kind girls stuck in the middle of a generically-run galaxy—too old to breed anything as climactic as the age-old process of life and death thrown into the pot of humanity's everlasting plight. It was just Faye and Edward, ready to take on the universe, ready to bear their own burdens upon each other's shoulders so they could carry the weight of it all altogether until the end of their short or perhaps long-lived camaraderie.

With one last smile, Faye stood up, brushing her shorts off of some imperceptible dust she could only make out through habit. "Thanks, Ed. You really do know how to read a gal... It used to be when I looked outside my window, I couldn't get no peace of mind. Always been a do-things-my-own-way type of gal, but... You really helped out along the way. You're just too good to me, you know that, kid?"

Edward smiled a smile that had reached out towards her eyes encompassing her face in its entirety. White teeth and bright hazel eyes gleamed with a knowing glow, one that sparked with embers of both down-right candor and a handful of understanding. It was the only perfect response Faye could ever think of.

"You're welcome, Faye-Faye," she winked. "You just keep busting those heads and I'll be there to tidy up the mess—we're a pair, us two, for the world is a spooky, spooky place!"

"Yeah, it is."

Yes, they were just two sides of the same tarnished coin.

* * *

 **A/N:** This chapter was based off the song Consideration by Rihanna (feat. SZA). I thought it'd be nice to incorporate some friendly elements involving or favorite cowgirl and our favorite hacker turned Bebop member. This is a little prelude before we further explore some of Faye's background in the next installment.


	4. Chapter 4: Sweet Life

**Prompt Four: Sweet Lif _e (Part One)_**

 _"You've had a landscaper and a house keeper since you were born, the sunshine always kept you warm. So why see the world, when you got the beach? Don't know why see the world, when you got the beach?"_

 **Characters** : Faye, Spike

 **Rating** : T

 **Genre:** Drama, Hurt/Comfort

 **Summary:** A quick introduction of the journey into Faye's past sheds light on the notion of life and death and the rich and complacent.

* * *

Session Four: Sweet Life

 _"Your memory, that's something special, right? You can hold onto each and every beautiful moment, you have the ability to go back in time and think about the last thing that incited a surge of nostalgia within you. You have the ability to see, fake eye or not, you have that."_

 _"And so?"_

 _"Well, you're just one lucky bastard now aren't you? Take it for granted, hold onto the past. Good for you."_

 _"Good for me? Good for me? You don't know what you're talking about..."_

 _"What, you think you're the only person in the world with his burdens? You're not. You don't know a thing, you don't know a damn thing of what it's really like to be dead with eyes glazed over only seeing black and white."_

 _"Yeah, how would you know? You see the world brightly, care-free, like a portrait painted in vivid colors. I don't believe a thing you say and there's nothing that could convince me otherwise."_

 _"Believe me, just ask the stars. You could be dead inside but still shine as a beacon of light, of life. It doesn't change the fact that a million lightyears away, you're as cold and dead as a corpse."_

 _"How would you know a damn thing?"_

 _How would you know?_

This manor was a mausoleum of dead hearts, so dark, so withered away that the last vestiges that made these people human were barely visible—even under a microscope perhaps. Beautiful, but only on the surface as their poorly contrived personas tainted the body in its entirety like a virus that simply ate away at the inner core, and, oh, how it ate with a hunger almost insatiable. Too immersed in the hedonism of life, the green that grew on trees was easily tossed left and right around the corridors, no longer holding its substance, but only left with the idea that it was still supported as monetary value.

Domesticated paradise, that's what it was. Palm trees and pools, spread out by the edge with your legs stretched smothered in tanning lotion and the richest of perfumed oils. Soft, delicate, floral. She would swallow the pill and watch as the waters turned more vivid than ever. The skies were so blue, like a portrait hand painted by _O'Keefe,_ the anathema of all those who possessed dull eyes and even duller pockets.

 _"...Well, it's not like you don't remember a damn thing. You told me yourself, didn't you?"_

 _"Remember? Remember? I can't even deign to remember what I did yesterday. Pushing forward, forgetting the past. You wouldn't understand."_

 _"I guess not. I'll never understand. I'll never understand a damn thing—you're just too much of an enigma wrapped into one, now aren't ya'?"_

 _"You don't know me enough to tell me that. You don't..."_

 _"Well, dear, life isn't simply peaches and mangoes by the market side, you can't expect me to care enough."_

 _"You'll never understand. It's a cold, cold world. My life is, no-no, my life was...it..."_

 _"Don't give me that... We all had our fair share of suffering."_

 _"That's not the point! My life wasn't that, it was perfect. It was...It was... That's why you'd never_ _understand! Don't you get it?"_

 _Don't you get it?_

Late night soirées with superficial people draped in the finest of cloths. Buttercream _Versace_ shirts, silk dresses straight from the _Dior_ cruise collection—Raf Simons did her just right, he pulled off all her curves, tailored his piece to be very much like a second skin. Her eyes would be glazed over, however, only able to see an obscure image of something pretty. It was all black and white, the world was a monochromatic portrait. Pretty things couldn't even scintillate if they tried.

In the pool house, the Tamborim would shake in a light rhythm as it carefully followed its samba ensemble. They laughed to their dead heart's content, swayed gently with the light melody of _Desafinado._ The Cabasa would play, at a steady sixteen-note bravado, bossa nova at its finest. Keeping it surreal, the pill had done its wonders. And when their dulled personalities could no longer bear its own bluntness, the mistress of the house would call out on cue. The glass of _Armand de Brignac_ that she had carelessly held between her dainty fingers would spill over the heavily embellished dress she wore, like gilded waters and jewels over white sandy beaches.

She'd say," Oh my! Looks like I've made a mess of myself, I should go change."

Their dead eyes, their dead hearts, would look at her in mild interest, but it would only be that of a small spark that would invariably blow away in seconds. She needed to continue to grasp their attention.

"Hey, girls! You know what?" She'd address the other decadently draped women. Rich pearls, Russian sable furs, fine silk and crepe-de-chine cloth. "Let's all change our dresses...and-and go to Monte Carlo and—gambling! Let's all go gambling!"

A light squeal would reverberate as she left down the hall in excitement and the whole party would follow in lieu of her abrupt departure. It was all so deplorable, so dead and boring. A quick game of roulette to drown the stiffness couldn't save them now. Their hearts were too cold.

But she had a landscaper and housekeeper since she was born. The sunshine always kept her warm so the coldness could never seep into her skin. It was a cold, cold world, not sugar-free and set in high-definition.

It didn't matter. Whatever feels good, whatever thing she could use as immediate gratification to help stave off the high of loneliness was all she needed. So why see the world, when you got the beach? She'd catch the breeze until she was dead and buried six feet under. The water was everything she thought it would be, a perfect dazzling blue.

The rich, the cold hearted, the glitz and the glam—this was the sweet life.

 _"Like I said, you'd never understand."_

To wake up from the dead only to realize you're just as dead as when you started off—this was the sweet life.

* * *

 **A/N:** This chapter is based off Sweet Life by Frank Ocean. However, the entire scene was based off **Karl Lagerfeld's Chanel Cruise 2011/2012 Collection's** accompanying short film, **The Tale of a Fairy.** Please, I do advise you, do watch it to understand this chapter, it is a very highly contrived and almost awkwardly directed film which I think captured the soul of this chapter. You'll find it on Chanel's official YouTube page most likely. I got my inspiration all from the excess of wealth, greed, and the hedonism associated with the lifestyle of the rich. I think it suits Faye's past quite well. This is an introduction, second part will be more in-depth.


	5. Chapter 5: Never Be Like You (Interlude)

**Prompt Five: Never Be Like You (Interlude)**

 _"I would give anything to change this fickle-minded heart that loves fake shiny things. Now I'm fucked up and I'm missing you. I'll never be like you._ _I'm only human can't you see? I made, I made a mistake._ _How do I make you wanna stay? Stop looking at me with those eyes, like I could disappear and you wouldn't care why. I_ _'m falling on my knees. Forgive me, I'm a fucking fool. I'm begging, darling, please. Absolve me of my sins, won't you?"_

 **Characters:** Spike, Faye

 **Rating:** T

 **Genre:** Drama, Angst

 **Summary:** A reunion on the deck leads to an unsettling exchange of words between our favorite bounty-hunting duo.

* * *

Session Five: Never Be Like You—An Interlude

Back home. He was back home.

Catching the breeze up on the highest point of the balcony, up, and up, and up all the way right where the sun hit the crest of the Bebop's steel plating enough to reflect a warm light across his skin. It bathed his aching bones in a light that he so dreadfully needed. It absolved him from his sins. The death of a best friend and a lover could do many a thing to haunt a man, so he needed that light to wash the blood off his hands, if only for a little while.

He had parked the Swordfish II in the hangar as if it were any other normal day. The fishing trawler was deserted, but he knew they'd come back any time soon. They were like that, too loyal to leave for any excess amount of time. He guessed he was just as loyal too, in his own convoluted way. The tiger-striped cat had his own streak of loyalty underneath the underneath.

Laying low down in the slums of Mars took a turn for the worse for a man too caught up with his demons in purgatory to continue to traipse around the city like a ghost. The taxi driver taught him that much. He said _," But, boy, you need prayer—one for a tired soul. Right?"_ And he acquiesced. Because damn right he needed prayer, he needed penance, forgiveness, or something of the other. If God couldn't forgive him, let it be the devil, or Kami or anyone up there looking down upon him from the heavens above.

He left a new beginning of life, the turning of a page, only to move ten steps back into the darkness that made up his last chapter. His rose, his Julia, sweet, sweet Julia with her long blonde hair and bright baby-blue eyes—a porcelain doll, too ethereal, so fake and shiny—left him in the dirt marking him for his own impending death. But when death didn't come, he had to fake it until he made it to the stairway knocking on heaven's door to meet his maker. However, instead of the Almighty opening from the other side of the door, he was met with a gruff looking ISSP retiree and later, a snarky violet-haired broad and somewhere down the road, a prodigal genius who seemed to have sprouted from the garden of indigo children. Maybe that was heaven now. In an odd sort of way, it could have been. But he left it anyway, just to see if he were still truly alive and kicking.

He knew that if he ever did come back, they'd give him shit. But he was human, couldn't they see that?

He made his mistakes too, he wasn't averse to having his own set of shortcomings as a man too haunted by the past to mesh well with reality. What he would do to take away the fear of being loved, to take away his unending allegiance to the pain of constant lingering, yearning, for a woman who was long gone.

This philophobia had done nothing but bear him strife. He was left cold and detached, even when there had been someone there who had offered him even the slightest iota of adoration. The gunshots that reverberated from the hangar never ceased to remind him of that very fact. Even so, he just couldn't do it, he couldn't betray Julia. But...Maybe, maybe she wasn't ever there, maybe she wasn't ever his to begin with. However, he couldn't help it, his fickle-minded heart just loved fake, shiny things far too much. And that's just what Julia was.

Yes, he was sure they'd give him shit as soon as they realized his return.

It took months, almost a year, for him to even get his shit together and head back to the Bebop. And now, here he was, waiting outside on top of the deck, gazing out into the sunset like a dead man walking, or perhaps a man reborn—he couldn't differentiate to which he was.

A clamor—a slight shuffling could be heard resonating down below the deck and he knew for a fact that they had returned. He heard a commotion really, footsteps running to and fro, in such a frantic pace, it even tired him out just listening. Doors being opened, the fall of boots clanking on the metal floors. He heard it all.

Now they were yelling, he could hear indiscernible voices carrying out a conversation as the frenetic running continued. He expected that much, seeing as they most likely spotted the Swordfish II parked in its familiar corner as soon as they entered the hangar.

The footfalls came closer, what was once fleeting now blared in his ears like a speaker literally being pressed into the drums. The metal door behind him suddenly flung open and he heard the click-clack of light boots suddenly jolting in their path. They skidded to a stop.

His body was turned away, but he could definitely discern the delicate pattern of her breathing, even shallowed as it was from probably running all over the goddamned place in search of him. She was panting like crazy, shortened breath and all, but she didn't say a word only stood there in what he most likely picked up as shock.

"...Y-You..." Her voice came out rough and vehement as if she were spitting venom at him.

He smiled in spite of himself. It had been so long since he had heard that voice. "Heh, cat got your tongue?"

"M-More like a ghost..." She replied in a shaky voice.

He turned around and it was as if all time had stopped—in the most clichéd sense possible. It had been building up to this point now, all those nights thinking about the haunting sound of bullets flying out into the halls, all those late night talks with random strangers about the meaning of life and unrequited love. Keep it cool, Spike-o. Keep it calm. Keep it cool. Be cool.

His lips upturned into a small smirk as he mouthed a short," Hey, Romani. It's been awhile."

Faye stilled, her breath caught in her throat. "I don't understand," She exhaled. "Why? Why did you do it?"

He knew that's not what she meant, he knew that deep down she was asking him _," Why? Why did you come back? Why are you here?"_ So many why's, he just didn't know how to address it. Words would fail him, he knew for sure.

"Guess I was just tired of laying low. Reality kept knocking on my front door, she's a real bitch when you think about it," he shrugged as casually as he could be.

"...That's it? That's all you have to say?" She looked shocked, but he knew that they both knew that this was to be expected. Of course that would be it. He was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve.

"What do you want me to say, Faye?"

"I-I... I don't know," she sighed, full of melodrama and herself, as she collapsed onto her knees. "I don't know..."

"Well, for starters, a hello would be nice."

Her eyes hardened at this. "Don't give me that. Don't give me that bullshit. Tell me why, tell me why you just walked out the door, tell me why you—"

She just opened up a can of worms he wasn't willing to address just yet. He wasn't ready, he needed more time. "...Look, there's nothing to discuss, okay? There wasn't anything left for me, nothing special. Nothing at all."

He knew these words would sting her, he needed that. He needed her to back away before the flames would overwhelm her. It was only for the best, for both of them, really.

"Your memory, that's something special, right? You can hold onto each and every beautiful moment, you have the ability to go back in time and think about the last thing that incited a surge of nostalgia within you. You have the ability to see, fake eye or not, you have that."

"And so?"

 _What was she getting at?_

"Well, you're just one lucky bastard now aren't you? Take it for granted, hold onto the past. Good for you."

"Good for me? Good for me? You don't know what you're talking about..." He could feel the spite in his voice rising.

"What, you think you're the only person in the world with his burdens? You're not. You don't know a thing, you don't know a damn thing of what it's really like to be dead with eyes glazed over only seeing black and white."

"Yeah, how would you know? You see the world brightly, care-free, like a portrait painted in vivid colors. I don't believe a thing you say and there's nothing that could convince me otherwise."

"Believe me, just ask the stars. You could be dead inside but still shine as a beacon of light, of life. It doesn't change the fact that a million lightyears away, you're as cold and dead as a corpse."

"How would you know a damn thing?"

 _How would you know, Faye?_

In the far depths of his imagination, the unused cogs began to turn, sweeping away the proverbial cobwebs that had built up from its lack of use. He could see himself now, falling on his knees. Asking for forgiveness with his hands pathetically waving in the air for penance. He'd beg _," Forgive me, I'm a fucking fool. I'm begging, darling, please. Absolve me of my sins, won't you?"_

But that wasn't him. He had too much pride, too much bravado. Spike Spiegel was the epitome of cool, nothing bothered him. Not even the somber face of a beautifully drawn woman with eyes that encapsulated emerald in the sun. She was downright gritty and all too much real for him to handle. Let his fickle-minded heart hold onto the fake and shiny things.

 _You don't know a damn thing, Faye. It's you who doesn't understand._

* * *

 **A/N:** This chapter was based off the song Never Be Like You by Flume (feat. Kai). I implore you, I beg you, please listen to this song because it so poignantly parallels the entire relationship between Spike and Faye. It's uncanny.


	6. Chapter 6: Penthouse Clouds

**Prompt Six: Penthouse Clouds**

 _"Father, oh Lord in heaven, is this what you wanted? This is what you've started, it's your creation. Is this what you wanted? Maybe we'll never know or maybe we'll find paradise in the sky when we die."_

 **Characters:** Jet

 **Rating:** K+

 **Genre:** Angst

 **Summary:** After Spike's departure, Jet recollects his thoughts on the matter as he watches the late-night news broadcast.

* * *

The images on the television were blurred, despite the fact that his eyes were so fixated upon the screen. The color, it was saturated with dozens of pixels that buzzed around the screen with a light flickering, completely low in resolution.

They flickered like inflections, making the screen in its entirety look like a big hazy picture with the _Intergalactic Satellite News_ _Station's_ Ken Mitsuji broadcasting the latest headliner, it read: _BUILDING GOES DOWN IN FLAMES_ _—_ but here's the sick twist, it wasn't just any other building, it was one of Mars' most powerful crime syndicate's designated headquarters, it was The Red Dragon Syndicate building that was currently burning down to dust in the wind.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Within an hour or so, he guessed the building would be completely down in cinders, no longer marking the foundation of which it was built upon.

The blurry action shot angles picked up from the camera man of a deteriorating structure coupled with the image of Ken Mitsuji preened to perfection with his mellow voice and grim face made him want to change the channel, truly they did. But he guessed that the other thousands of Intergalactic Satellite channels were much more mundane than the news, or so he kept telling himself. It's not like he was interested that some age-old crime syndicate had finally been left to the books, it's not like he cared.

The newscaster just kept on talking and those shitty camera angles kept on replaying the same image and the headline just rolled on and on and on and on _—_ it was all so deplorable. So, he switched the volume onto mute and leaned back into the worn-out cushions of the couch, sighing a deep, sorrowful sigh _—_ one that he felt in his bones. With no other sound resonating around the empty common room, he could hear the light shuffling of feet down the hall. He guessed it was Faye probably dragging herself out of lying in a pitiful heap all day long, probably needed to use the shower.

He thought about what he would say to her the morning after. He'd ask her _," Did you see the news last night? They shot another one down."_

He could see her now, with her dull green eyes and dry lips. She'd probably blanch, but they both knew it was coming, there was no use in stalling the inevitable.

She'd say _," Does it even matter why? Or Was it all for nothing?"_ The answer would be just as obvious.

Jet stretched his weary limbs out, cradling his face on his hands. He'd ask _," Father, oh Lord in heaven, is this how you saw it?"_

Not one to be a religious man, he'd let the prayer fall onto deaf ears, or maybe to the wind, or to the ashes of the building, or to the dust that would be left behind.

He'd ask _," When you made your creation, is this what you wanted?"_ To see the good and the bad and the young and the old perish into the flames of everlasting nonexistence only to be blown away as dust in the wind.

 _Is this what you wanted?_

There's no use in asking, there would always be questions left unanswered. He'd ask and he'd ask. But, maybe he'd never know. Maybe he'd never know of what became of the young cowboy who galloped out into the distance and back into the unending void of reality. Maybe he'd never know of what became of the man who he once called a friend, a colleague, a companion.

He'd ask _," What happens when we die?"_

Did he perish along with the ashes, was he burning in the seven circles of hell, did he ever get the answer to his question? Maybe he did, maybe he didn't.

He'd still ask _," Is this what you wanted?"_ and the television would turn to black leaving him to ponder it all.

* * *

 **A/N:** This chapter was based off the song Penthouse Clouds by The Internet.


	7. Chapter 7: FourFive Seconds

**Prompt Seven: FourFive Seconds**

 _"I think I've had enough, I might get a little drunk. I say what's on my mind, I might do a little time. 'Cause all of my kindness Is taken for weakness. Now I'm FourFive seconds from wylin.'"_

 **Characters:** Jet, Faye

 **Rating:** T

 **Genre:** Friendship

 **Summary:** The Bebop is growing far too lonely for Jet and Faye and the silence is taking a toll on their patience. Two lonely people. One fine morning. And then the world is flipped upside down.

* * *

Session Seven: FourFive Seconds

When Jet stumbled into the middle of one of Venus' most ramshackle bars, he was actually glad he had done so.

 _Speakeasy's_ was once a timeless classic in its glory days, it called to him every midnight after a busy patrol session back in his ISSP tenure when he was once upon a time stationed on good ol' bright and incandescent Venus. She was the goddess of love, of fertility, perhaps that's why the Black Dog couldn't help but feel the urge to draw closer to her atmosphere. Perhaps he wanted to reminisce on the good old days too, or maybe he was simply a lost soul beckoned by a prayer from another. Never one to be a religious man however, Jet took it as a mere sign of coincidence.

He woke up an optimist—bright and early, right before the sun peaked through the last shadows of the night to touch the sky with its small embers of light and life. By the time he went down to the kitchen, the sun was shining. When he whisked up a bowl of eggs and chopped chives while he whistled a little made-up tune, he had felt so positive right then and there. But when the meal was finished being prepared and when he strolled down to a certain female colleague's room only to find it completely deserted, things took a turn for the worse.

He had to hold himself back from spazzing out of control and scouring Venus to its very last nook and cranny just to drag the neurotic broad back and sit her down for a decent breakfast. Jet swore if he went to jail by the end of the day, she'd better pay his bail because he was one, two, three, four, five seconds from going ballistic.

These people just loved to piss in his garden, didn't they? All of his kindness was taken for weakness—and Jet Black was having none of that this fine Tuesday morning because he had three more days until Friday to just lay back and take a breather to trim his bonsai garden into the most pristine form of perfection possible.

It was 2:18 in the afternoon when he stumbled into _Speakeasy's._ The bar was as deserted as a crackhouse after a S.W.A.T. raid, something out of an old Earth 90's relic or something—was it _Die Hard?_ He couldn't remember. Needless to say there were but only three other warm bodies littering the bar save for himself, and it was no surprise that a certain fair-skinned bounty huntress was slumped across the bar counter with her skinny limbs sprawled across the creaking wooden platform right next to two empty glasses of what he believed to be this bar's most potent poison—he knew it was just her taste. Or lack thereof if you asked him.

He was just four, five seconds from crossing the room to give her a piece of his mind. He was just four, five seconds from laying his cards on the table only to flip them over and reveal the truth of the matter—that Spike was gone, that Ed was missing in action, and that there was nothing they could do about it.

 _So quit being selfish and come back to the ship, why won't you?_

* * *

She'd had enough. The silence on the ship was just too unbearable. It was stiff, awkward, as if all its inhabitants had suddenly been robbed of their natural temperament and what was left of it was a misplaced tranquility.

Things were never like this, things weren't supposed to be like this.

Conversation between Jet and herself had been tense, they were just too busy dancing around the issue that had been plaguing the ship in its entirety for weeks. The fact that a certain curly-haired ex-gangster-turned-bounty-hunter was gone, the fact that their cyber-tech prodigy has left, and the fact that their once effervescent ship was now as active as a morgue was at the forefront of their troubles.

So what better way to project those troubles into something logical than a little game of drinking? It was her only other option, so what if she might get a little drunk?

Head over heels and down to the tips of her toes was the kind of plastered she was aiming to achieve. To be in that uncertain haze, to be thrust in that feeling where the poison would depress the frontal lobe so heavily that you couldn't even pair a coherent sentence together was what she wanted.

Because if she were to say what was truly on her mind, she may as well simply ruin their little game of _don't-ask-don't-tell._ And Faye didn't want that. To tear down the foundations of something that took a great deal of meticulous preparation and repression was something she wasn't keen on, otherwise she'd be tossing the first stone to her path down her own condemnation.

It had been weeks since Ed and Spike bid their farewells and since then it had been driving her insane out of her mind and ready to be dubbed as "The One Who Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."

These people just loved to turn their backs on her, didn't they? They'd use her for what little resources they could exploit from her, whether it be friendship or her own off-putting way of displaying kindness and then they'd leave her to the dogs to fend for herself once they grew too tired to humor her vulnerable soul. And Faye Valentine was having none of that this dreadful Tuesday morning because she had three more days until Friday morning for another spin cycle of the depressing story that was her life—just wash, rinse, and repeat.

She had one, two, three, four, five seconds until she went ballistic from the unnerving silence that veiled the Bebop. She wanted out and bar hopping was her best bet.

 _So, pour another glass of whiskey so that we can drink to our heart's content, why won't you?_

* * *

A poignant picture, a dusty barroom, three poor souls ready to make their penance to their maker. That's all he saw. So when he strode across the bar with five long steps under his steel-toed boots, he swept through the room like a man with a new purpose.

He reached over and jostled his colleague into consciousness with a firm yet empathic grip because he felt if he were to shake her with all his strength, she would merely snap in half.

"W-Wha...?" She questioned in her inebriated haze looking at him with wide eyes—so bright and full of wonder he could have sworn he saw that little girl back from the beta cassette deep within those mossy irises.

 _"You know, I have had it up to here 'til I start going crazy, Faye! We have three more days 'til Friday and I'm just trying to make it back home by Monday morning without so as much as an empty ship and no crew to look after anymore! So quit your damn moping and get over it. Things come and go, nothing is ever permanent!"_ He could have swore he would have said this.

But the universe had other plans for his actual course of action because when he looked down to see the pure, unadulterated hurt in her eyes, the words seemed to have died on his lips.

"Hey, there..." His voice softened not knowing what had possessed him from not cursing her to hell and back for unceremoniously leaving the Bebop this morning without so much as a note. The dramatics had suited her so well that when it was no longer present, she seemed almost unreal.

She sat up slowly, gathering her bearings as she looked at her surroundings.

"...Wha—Oh, you're here? You actually went lookin' for me...?" She croaked. "Y-You, well I... Well, thanks I guess..."

And they both knew that the simple expression of gratification alluded to more than just that. What she meant to say was _," I'm sorry Jet, I was being childish."_ Or, _" I'm so grateful to have you as my own de-facto paternal figure."_

He bent down lowly to allow her to wrap an arm around his shoulders in support. "The Hammerhead towed your Redtail back into the Bebop hangar, let's head back home. Cut the shenanigans and eat a real meal other than a pack of cigs and some whiskey, will you?"

"...Betcha' think m'brat, now, huh?" She slurred. "Betcha' think m'pathetic for-for..."

For missing _him,_ yes, but for being in love, no—he didn't think that to be pathetic at all.

"...I know that you've been up all night thinking,' How could I be so selfish?' Weren't cha'?"

His brows furrowed. "Faye, I'm thinking a lot of things right now and pathetic doesn't even cut it from half the shit I want to say to you."

She reached inside her pocket and pulled out her communicator before smiling a pitiful grin. She then proceeded to wave the little gadget in the air. "Swear, you've called 'bout a thousand times wondering where I've been."

"Yeah, I know. I just wanted to make sure that you didn't kill yourself by Monday morning, if you get my drift. You're just too damn reckless for your own good."

He could see the dullness in her eyes more clearly now and he knew that from the look she gave him that perhaps she had been contemplating that very idea all morning. This earned her a pointed look.

"Y'know... I just...I can't, Jet. I just can't," she sighed.

"Can't what?"

"Heh, y'know exactly what m'talking 'bout. Don't play dumb old man, it doesn't suit ya.' You—You're lookin' for an apology good sir, but I just can't give you one. Frankly, I'm not sorry at all... I...I just can't apologize, I hope you can understand."

He understood perfectly because he felt the same way too. They couldn't both apologize for someone else's transgressions. It just wasn't their place to begin with.

"I wonder why I still put up with you strays," he muttered under his breath as he placed a few woolongs down on the bar counter and began to usher the plastered woman out of the door. "I swear, all of my kindness is taken for weakness. You all just stomp all over me because I'm such a do-good Samaritan."

Faye looked up at him with a small quirk on her lips. "...You're a good man, Jet."

"Hn, really now?"

"...Yeah. Yeah ya' are...I don't say it much, but I 'ppreciate the fact you're still here even when everyone else up and left."

Jet chuckled. "Well, I can only say the same for you, you crazy broad."

And the two bounty hunters laughed to this on their path back home because they both knew that the last grain of sand had finally made it past the sieve and their four, five seconds were up.

* * *

 **A/N:** This chapter is based off the song FourFive Seconds by Rihanna, Kanye West, & Paul McCartney. I needed to add some content that was less angsty and drama-filled for once and it looks like I can't even muster up a decent humorous chapter.


	8. Chapter 8: The Woman with the Red Lips

**Prompt Eight: The Woman With the Red Lips**

 _"You find the black tube inside her beauty case where she keeps your father's old prison letters. You desperately want to look like her. You look nothing like your mother. You look everything like your mother. Film star beauty. How to wear your mother's lipstick. You go to the bathroom to apply your mother's lipstick. Somewhere no one can find you._

 _You must wear it like she wears disappointment on her face. Your mother is a woman and women like her cannot be contained. Mother dearest, let me inherit the earth. Teach me how to make him beg. Let me make up for the years he made you wait. Did he bend your reflection? Did he make you forget your own name? Did he convince you he was a god? Did you get on your knees daily? Do his eyes close like doors? Are you a slave to the back of his head?_

 _Am I talking about your husband or your father?"_

 **Characters:** Faye, Spike (cameo)

 **Rating:** K+

 **Genre:** Angst and Drama

 **Summary:** In which the famous bathroom scene where Faye remembers her past is reimagined with the image of a woman and her infamous red lips.

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She didn't know what had caused it.

One day she simply woke up with the need to tear up the walls from their foundation, to dig her nails raw into the walls and rip it from its worn down steel plating. Deep inside coiled the feeling of burning, seething anger. So raw in its passion, she felt as if the flames that crackled in her chest would burn out into the world with its crimson swirls to consume everything within its path. And oh how she wanted it so.

She glared into her reflection that morning. With tired, sunken eyes that almost seemed hollowed from the years that had taken a toll on both her mental and physical health. With unkempt, disheveled hair that was dulled from lack of care. Her visage was a testament to the lack of anything for the matter, for it was as stiff and empty as a walking cadaver. It was as dead as Faye Valentine.

And yet...

And yet, burned the relentless flames of unmitigated anger that seeped deep into the bones and cracked on the surface of the very soul. That burning anger that could only be felt through the very layers of hell that circumvented into several rings of madness, pain, betrayal, and _grief._

She glared into the mirror with the reflection of a woman she no longer knew. This was not Faye Valentine. This was not a woman weary from the abrasiveness of life and its shortcomings. This was someone else in its entirety, staring back into the mirror with the face of one who had experienced a redivivus.

Perhaps the woman was tired in dwelling on the ashes and ready to burst forth from the dust as a new soul, not quite the person she had been and not quite the person she had wanted to be. Stuck in a medium between heaven and hell, stuck in a purgatory of temperament and a dulled countenance.

She scrambled for her beauty case, fingers still trembling with a deep-seated anger that burned the flesh as it festered.

From the jumble of things that had been encased inside the bag, Faye had procured her favorite tube of lipstick. It was one of those old, vintage tubes—the personalized ones that were once popularized during an era when consumerism and excess were at its peak. It was one of her most treasured possessions. It pulled her back into a nostalgia that she could never understand within this lifetime. It was because she remembered.

She placed it on the edge of the mirror in frustration. Staring at the tube of lipstick as if it were the bane of her existence. Her vision blurred. All of her surroundings had turned into blurred lines, save for the single tube of lipstick that stood on its perch atop the worn down sink. Gone was the reflection. Gone was image of an unknown woman staring murderously in the mirror.

In its place, a new scene unfurled. The woman's image had fled and the reflection of a young adolescent stood in the mirror. Her eyes were a bright emerald color that scintillated with the naivete of a child. The cheeks were flushed with light and life without the artificial tinge that rouge would often mimic. There was a smile on her face.

She found the black tube in her mother's beauty case. She wanted so desperately to look like her—to look like the tall and regal mistress of the house who portrayed the epitome of gaudiness and grace. She wanted to have those firetruck red lips. The kind of lips that pointed upwards in a poignant pout. The lips that would command men and women to do their bidding. However...she looked nothing like her mother.

And yet, she looked everything like her mother. A walking oxymoron clad in opulent clothing with diamonds and pearls and all the other meaningless material that made up a woman bred from the highest tier of the upper echelon. They called it "Film-Star Beauty." That's why she studied every movement, every mannerism, all down to an art.

Her mother was a woman, a woman who could not be contained. And so, she studied how to wear her mother's lipstick, to emulate the woman who seemed so effortlessly liberated.

But as she stood in front of the mirror and glared at the tube of lipstick, that was when she understood. Her mother wore that firetruck red lipstick like she wore disappointment on her face. And so, she too must learn how to wear that very same disappointment on her face in time.

Faye fell on her knees, allowing such a huge responsibility to bear its weight upon her shoulders. She must wear her mother's lipstick like she wore the disappointment on her face.

No longer was there a seething anger that burned in her chest as ephemeral as it was. Instead, a feeling of melancholic understanding strode in to claim its rightful place. And soon, the feeling of all the repressed memories in the form of a past lifetime was all she could hold on to. Faye cried and cried.

"Is this how it feels like mom?" She whispered to herself as she laid on the bathroom floor curled up in a heap of enlightenment and sadness.

It was her mother who allowed her to inherit the earth, long after she was buried and blown away like dust in the wind, with her unfaithful husband interred right next to her. The only evidence of their existence now was an abandoned mansion and a messed up daughter too cynical from the one thing that granted her a second chance in life.

Faye wondered idly to herself, what would her parents think if they knew that their only daughter was buried in debt and living off of scavenging and the hustle of the streets. Would they be disappointed? Would her mother have worn that same look of disappointment she had whenever her father would sneak back into the house in the middle of the night smelling of another woman's cheap perfume and booze?

He made her forget her name. He bent her reflection just as Faye had done so to herself. He convinced her he was a god, made her get on her knees daily as she cried in shame for allowing such a man to walk all over her dignity. She became a slave to the back of his head as he consistently turned away to the side and looked at her differently. His eyes closed like doors, and with the disappointment still etched upon her countenance she fruitlessly attempted to open those unrelenting doors.

Oh how she wished her mother had taught her the art of turning the other cheek. How she desperately wished her mother had taught her how to make men beg the way she made her father fall on his knees and ask for penance.

She told herself, _" Let me make up for the years he made you wait. Let me hurt all the men who so as come an inch close to me all in the hopes that you are absolved from his wrongdoings."_

And when Faye slowly brought herself up onto her feet, she finally took another glance at the mirror.

She couldn't recognize the reflection before out of sheer denial. She couldn't look at the woman in the mirror because she knew that this was not Faye Valentine. She was not Faye Valentine.

No, she was her mother's daughter and she was a woman who was not cynical in life. She was far beyond the petty labels of a gambler and of a woman scorned.

Faye would not let another man hurt her, she would not let another man scorn her the way her father had done so to her dearest mother. And as she reached towards the tube of lipstick and uncapped it, she set her lips into the grim line that her mother wore. Because she would learn to wear that disappointment like a second-skin, she would learn to live her life with the thought that she would always come second place to a dead woman.

With that in mind, Faye threw open the bathroom door and strode out with a new purpose. She was to wear that disappointment, she was to understand the pain that her mother endured because without this, her mother with her long forgotten memory would never receive the retribution she so deserved.

Much to her misfortune, as she scrambled in her dazed haste, Faye clashed into the tall figure that stood as her harbinger of disappointment.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" Spike shouted, clearly irritated from having been unceremoniously bumped into.

Breath heaving in her chest, she quickly turned around and stared at him in bewilderment. His face was creased with lines of annoyance, the same lines that would mar her father's face each time her mother would pitifully look into his eyes. She could feel her mother's arms wrap around her in that very moment, soothing her from screaming, shouting—from letting that repressed anger fan out into flames.

"I'm sorry..." She felt herself whispering.

Clearly, he was unused to seeing her so candidly contrite because the look on his face was priceless, Had she not been in such a state, Faye knew she would have pointed this out, but this too she refrained from doing.

"Sorry?" He questioned in disbelief.

She could feel her mother smiling down upon her, she could feel the look of disappointment leaving her mother's beautiful red lips. "Yes," she confirmed. "I'm sorry..."

And with that, she quickly turned away to avert her eyes from him. The weight was lifted off her shoulders. With each stride, she felt as liberated—as effortlessly liberated as the woman with the firetruck red lips.

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 **A/N:** This chapter is an homage to Warsan Shire's poetic lines from Beyonce's latest materpiece, _Lemonade._ I wrote this in thirty minutes, so I apologize for the mistakes and lack of proper editing.


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